Into The Twilight
by SheWhoScrawls
Summary: Should he be dead? Does he deserve to be dead? Why does he still question himself? But then Holmes reminds him that it was all for the greater good, and Dr. Watson wishes he could stay.


_A/N: Yes, I know, another one shot... However, I have lots of these, and they will be published until I can get my multi-chapters in order. And a thank-you to my wonderful editor on this, Lemon Zinger. She has been amazing in helping me out. So here it is: your tearful story of the day. Enjoy! -SWS_

* * *

It is two months since the disaster.

In this time he has had the revengeful pleasure of watching many members of the "web" brought to justice, with many a pleading look in his direction. He returns it with eyes full of hatred and repulsion, and what he believes to be a cold, emotionless mask, the most Holmes-like he can muster.

Every morning, he wakes up beside his wife, and were it not for her presence, he would truly believe that his wish has come true- that he is still in Baker St., that they had not ever been pulled into the chase to catch Moriarty, and that he will walk downstairs and enter the sitting room to be welcomed by the familiar, much longed for sight of a tall and slender man wrapped in a dressing gown and with a hawkish nose.

* * *

As Mary opens her eyes with him, and she reaches out to grasp his hand, he smiles, though it is forced and she knows it.

Again, he barely touches his breakfast, and she eyes him with concern. She is as grieved as he is, and she would have expected him to hide his consternation better. He tried at first, but she understands that it is no easy thing to overcome the loss of one's best friend, and she will stay strong to help him through it.

But as she considers this, she remembers that day that she met her husband. The same day that she met the man whose body lay at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls, they same man they have been lamenting.

John told her later the discussion the two men had had earlier that day- of the deductions regarding John's pocket watch- and many times of the impression he formed of her the moment he laid eyes on her that first fateful time. And now, as she feels such sympathy for him, and yearns to reach through that wall he has built round himself and pull him back to her side, she attempts to no avail to blink the salty tears from her eyes.

* * *

He wishes he didn't have to leave her, but he has made a point of checking in with the yard every day. He has told her that he is going to his consulting-rooms, but she has spoken with Jackson, who has told her that he has taken over the practice these last few weeks.

He takes no pains to cover up where he is really going- in fact, on this particular day, Mary has hired one of the Irregulars to tail him- but only needs to satisfy his hunger to know.

Know if they have uncovered any evidence to prove that his long-time companion is not really dead.

Know if any more members in the organization who had such a large part in bringing about this tragedy are due to stand trial.

Know that he is not the only one who feels as if a gigantic part of his life is missing.

As he walks through those doors, Lestrade shoots him a sympathetic glance. That does not improve his hopes any. But, it is from Lestrade once again that he seeks his information, as he still holds Patterson partially responsible for the sadness and anger that are building up inside of him.

Lestrade anticipates his question even before he overcomes the heavy burden that weighs him down and opens his mouth.

The Inspector dreads giving the same answer he has given every day, yet he musters all his strength and says the three words that he wishes more than anything he had reason not to believe. "There is nothing."

* * *

He doesn't even have the heart to visit Mrs. Hudson today, for he does not want to have his black mood worsened by the grieving silence that always falls between the two of them.

And yet, quite unconsciously leading him against his own will, his feet still seem to find their way to Baker St.

Perhaps he only yearns for a good look- or at least a small glimpse- at that wonderful building he will always call home. Or perhaps he truly doesn't want to let his kindly former landlady face her struggles alone. Or perhaps it is he that does not want to face his struggles alone.

But none of these things cross his mind, and he wonders what he is doing here.

Now consciously choosing which path he takes, he sets off again, head down and hands shoved deep into his pockets.

As night begins to fall upon the city of London, he slowly becomes aware of the time, and knows that he must soon head home or else cause Mary even more worry than he has already.

He has been standing idle, staring at the gnarled trunk of a centuries old oak tree for a long time, wondering what things might be like had the people in his life chosen different paths. Would one in particular still be alive?

As he turns back, still following this fantasy of his, a figure seems to emerge from the growing fog and gloom, and it falls into step beside him.

* * *

He looks up at Holmes, who grins. The gentle creases of the smile cause a queer sort of rippling effect on his face. "My dear Watson, we destroyed him. We destroyed his entire web of crime. That is more than I ever hoped for, old fellow."

Could it really be? Yes, for it is that same aquiline nose, those same gray eyes, and that same voice. All he wants to do is shout for joy. He wants very badly to throw his arms around the man who stands here, and never ever let go. But he does not. He merely nods his head. "Yes, we did, Holmes."

He is in awe that Holmes is still alive, that they are again partners, and are strolling along the sidewalks under the dim light of the gas lamps, as they always used to.

But no, it cannot be, for he knows that it had to be one or the other. Sherlock Holmes died to save John Watson, his chronicler and the only true friend he ever had.

He should be dead, he _deserves _to be dead, John realizes bitterly. _He _is actually the older one. There is no reason that Holmes should have died while John lives.

And as all his hopes are shattered, the apparition- or, the illusion created by his own grieving mind- gives a deep sigh, and he watches helplessly as the man whose talent and chivalry he has for so long admired turns away and vanishes into the twilight.


End file.
